


Goodbyes

by thesecretdetectivecollection



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-09-06 17:55:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8763118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecretdetectivecollection/pseuds/thesecretdetectivecollection
Summary: Steven Gerrard's had to say a lot of goodbyes since he got the armband. They're all different, and yet somehow, they're all the same. They all hurt, somehow.





	1. Michael Owen

Stevie was only twenty-three when he got the armband for Liverpool. At some point every summer, he got calls from some of his teammates, the ones who care enough to call. He almost knew now when the call is coming, and from who, from watching the transfer rumors grow from wild erratic guesses to more educated estimates to claims of absolute ironclad truth, watching the journos’ names get more and more reputable until he actually knows them.  
  
Michael Owen was the first. And Stevie hadn’t liked him much towards the end, but he’d called him once, before those final papers had been signed, and asked him to stay. _For Jamie’s sake,_ Stevie had said. _Stay for Jamie’s sake. He needs you._  
  
_He doesn’t need me. He has you_ , Michael had said, and then he had hung up.  
  
Michael and Stevie hadn’t been that close, really, but that didn’t mean Stevie wanted him gone. Then again, it hadn’t mattered what Stevie’d wanted. He’d gone anyway, breaking Jamie’s heart in the process, and hardening Stevie’s.  
  
Stevie didn't miss  _him,_ so much as he had missed the boy he had been, the boy who had been kind to Stevie and helped him when he'd been starting out. But Jamie did. He looked sad sometimes, looked across to where Michael’s locker used to be, turned round to share some inside joke and then turned back. Sometimes, on away nights, Jamie said Michael’s name in his sleep.  
  
_Mickey, I miss you._  
  
_Come home, Mickey Mouse_.  
  
Stevie slipped out of bed, and slipped into Jamie's, wrapping his arms around him until he settled. When he quieted down, Stevie sighed, and tried to force himself back to sleep too. 

Jamie woke up slowly, and then all at once. 

 _Mickey?_ He asked, voice raw with hope and wanting and yearning. 

Stevie pretended to sleep, until Jamie realized, until he laid down again and pulled Stevie closer. 

 _We don't need him, do we?_ Jamie whispered. 

 _I'm not going anywhere, Carra,_ Stevie said back quietly. 

Jamie stiffened for a second. He hadn't thought Stevie was awake. His arms tightened around him. 

 _You better not be,_ he said. 

  
He hated Michael for it.  
  
(Jamie didn't. He didn't have the heart for it. _I wish him all the best_ , he told the press, and it was true, and that was what finally broke Stevie’s heart a little.)

 

\---

Michael called Jamie the next summer. Jamie picked up—of course he did. He couldn't help himself. Not with Michael.  
  
_Hullo, Michael_ , he said, careful not to step into the comfort of the nickname.  
  
_Hi, Jamie. Any chance you’ll want me back? I miss you. And the club. Leaving was a mistake._  His voice is soft, still familiar, even if it is worn at the edges. Jamie remembered being young and in love. _He wanted to come back._  
  
_I’ll check, Mickey_ , he said, the joy erasing his composure. _I’ll check if Rafa needs another striker._  
  
He did check, and he tried hard, and he was despondent when he called Mickey back and told him, _We're all set for strikers, mate. I'm sorry_.   
  
And Jamie went to Stevie’s house that night and told him everything and crawled into his bed and let himself be held, and tried to forget.  
  
_I’m sorry, J._ Stevie had said.

 _Don’t be._  
  
He came to Newcastle that summer. They played each other a few times, over the years. At the end of each match, Jamie was mentally and physically and emotionally exhausted, and always he found his way to Stevie when he couldn't be strong anymore.  
  
But it was okay. They learned to deal with it. Jamie looked a little better after each match where Michael wore black and white stripes and played against red shirts. It took Jamie a year to stop asking for Michael in his sleep, but stop he did.  
  
Michael still called each summer, asking if he could come home. Each summer Jamie melted, like ice in the summer sun, and asked the manager. Each summer, the manager said no. Rafa, and then Roy, and then Kenny. Each summer, he told Michael he was sorry.   
  
Then Michael went to United, and Jamie went straight to Stevie’s bed, every night for a solid week.   
  
_I can’t believe he would_ —he started, before breaking off.  
  
_I thought he loved us more_ , Jamie finished quietly. _I thought he loved me more._  
  
_Me too_ , Stevie said, finding Jamie’s hand with his under the covers.  
  
It took a long time for Stevie to stop hating him, after that.  
  
But his career stagnated, he was struck with injury after injury, and eventually, he simply retired. It was a sad story, really. Jamie called to express his condolences, or congratulate him on his career--these phone calls were always both, somehow.

Some nights, lying next to Jamie, Stevie wondered what might have happened, if he'd stayed. 

  
Michael went into punditry for BT, after he retired. Eventually, Stevie signed a contract with BT, too. And when he saw him that first day, he settled down, because none of the old feelings he’d expected cropped back up again. There was just pity, and the fondness from childhood, when Michael had looked out for him, when he'd been smaller and more afraid than he was now. Before they'd become equals, before jealousy swirled in the air between them.

Before Michael had left Jamie.

Before Stevie had found Jamie, in the dressing room and in the coach and on the plane and in the hotel rooms and in his bed, too, now and then. 

 _Hullo, Michael_ , Stevie said. 

 _Hiya Stevie_ , _looking forward to working with you again_. 

 _Me too, Mickey_. Michael blushed and Stevie chuckled. 


	2. Xabi Alonso

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xabi is next, and Stevie wonders if this is how Jamie felt, when Michael left them behind.

There were more calls, after Michael. Every summer, and a few in January, too. Some people didn’t call, but they showed up at his door, and Stevie sighed and let them in. But only a few of them actually mattered. Only a few of them carved themselves into his memory for years and years to come.  
  
The next one of those is Xabier Alonso.  
  
“Stevie. Hi.” Xabi sounded unsure, and he never sounded that way—his English was good now, and he and Stevie were good. Maybe better than good. Which left only one conclusion for Stevie to draw.  
  
“Hi, Xabi. So, you’re going then?” Stevie says dully.  
  
“It’s, it’s _Real Madrid_ , Stevie. Ronaldo is there. We’ll win trophies.” Stevie winced over the phone at the word ‘we.’ So that’s that, then. He wasn’t even there yet, and already he was part of Los Blancos. He let a little bite come into his voice as he responded.  
  
“We _will_ win trophies, Xabi, and I’m sure _you_ will too.”  
  
“Stevie…” The word was soft with reproach, and Stevie wanted to take away the nickname, wanted to take back the intimacy it implied, wanted to be Señor Gerrard again the way he had been the first time they’d met, or Steven, when they were just starting to get to know each other.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Xabi said, after a short pause.  
  
“Yeah, me too.” Stevie replied, voice heavy, and he didn’t know what he was referring to, really. Was he sorry for his words, for shoving Xabi out of their ‘we’ so quickly? He was leaving, after all. Or did he mean what Xabi meant, that they both regretted the choices that led to Xabi trading in the Reds for Los Blancos? Maybe it was both, Stevie decided. It felt like both.  
  
He might have loved Xabi, when they were together. He’d started strong, that first day in training. He’s been stunning, on the pitch and off it, and his mind was exceptional, this thing of incredible beauty and sweetness and intelligence, and Stevie had wanted more. Always, always wanted more, even on the nights Jamie slept in his bed.  
  
He had loved him in Istanbul, but he’d been too open, and Jamie’d smiled at him, kind in the way Jamie always was, and found himself a nice bit of floor to sleep on in someone else’s room that night, leaving Stevie and Xabi behind. Alone. Stevie hadn’t even noticed until later.  
  
It was five years, nearly. Five glorious years, years of feeling like he was flying on the pitch, like Xabi just _fit_ with him, as smooth and natural as his own left hand.  
  
He’d nearly forgotten what it was to play football without the comfort of Xabi by his side. He’d remember soon enough, he supposed.  
  
He might have loved him after, too, when Xabi was in Madrid, because it was hard to just turn it off. It was a leaky tap—it kept dripping. It was like sprinting and stopping on a dime and changing direction. It hurt, sometimes.  
  
When it hurt the most, when he couldn’t stop thinking about it, about the way even the pitch was somehow greener when he was there, about how he had felt under Stevie’s fingers, he found himself driving to Jamie’s.  
  
He’d knocked on his door, and Jamie’d opened it, bleary-eyed, and led him upstairs by the hand, and they laid there together, Jamie’s soft breath passing just by Stevie’s ear, until Stevie fell asleep and Jamie let himself join him.  
  
But people change and grow apart, and that’s a good thing.  
  
Otherwise Stevie might never have forgiven him.  
  
Xabi went on to win everything he wanted to win. Stevie won a few, lost more than that.  
  
A few years later, after a brilliant career at Madrid, he signed for Bayern Munich, learned to speak German. _It already feels like home_ , he said at the press conference.  
  
Stevie saw the tiredness in him and wondered when he would get tired of lying. Jamie squeezed his hand, not sure what to say, if there was anything that would fit anyway.  
  
Stevie smiled at him, at Jamie, who would never leave him. His Carra, who had always been there, and who would never, ever, _ever_ leave him.  
  
The next time he was asked about Xabi Alonso, he didn’t stutter, fell smoothly into the answer that he’d given so many times that it felt rehearsed at this point, smooth and worn from saying the words so often.  
  
 _He’s the most complete midfielder I’ve ever played with. One of the best midfielders in the world at one point, absolutely top class. You can see what he’s accomplished, the clubs he’s been at, the trophies he’s won, and for Spain as well. Yeah, I loved playing with Xabi, we were always on the same wavelength. Such an intelligent footballer…_  
  
 _Yes, we’re still close now. We still get on well, call and text every now and then._  
  
He smiled at the cameras and the pretty ladies asking the questions and then he went to Jamie's. He found him in front of the telly. He pulled him up by the hand and dragged him along behind him up the stairs. He tugged at his arm until he was lying in bed. Stevie curled himself around him, and slept.


	3. Fernando Torres

For the first year and a half, he watches Xabi’s matches, sat next to Jamie on the sofa. Sometimes he properly gives up all pretenses and lies down, settling his head on Jamie’s lap and letting Jamie pet his hair while they watch (or until Stevie falls asleep—the low background buzzing of the supporters helps lull him to sleep, and BT has the world’s most boring punditry team anyway, which doesn’t exactly help things.  
  
But after that he gets better, slowly. He stops watching Xabi’s matches quite so much, and when he does watch, he doesn’t stare at the screen with the same desperate longing on his face. He doesn’t put his head in Jamie’s lap, leans against him just barely, remarks on football, on tactics and formations and styles rather than just gazing mutely at the screen.  
  
 _Might go home tonight,_ he says one day when Jamie’s just waking up.  
  
 _Oh?_ Jamie asks, blinking sleepily and still looking sleep-dazed.  
  
 _Back to mine, I mean_ , Stevie clarifies unnecessarily. This had been home, after all, for awhile after.  
  
 _I’ll help you pack if you need_ , Jamie says, _but you gotta make me breakfast though. Make up your special scramble. Throw in a cuppa tea and I’ll even drop you off myself._  
  
Stevie smiles as he gets out of bed, and sets the kettle on to boil.  
  
He doesn’t quite know when he stops seeing Nando Torres as the kid—his nickname is ridiculously apt, he looks like a sixteen year old, the pretty one in the class that the girls all like, kind of like Becks in that way.  
  
But he stops seeing him that way at some point after he’s back at home, and when Fernando kisses him one day after the match, he kisses back. Jamie might have seen, maybe--he climbs into the bus before Stevie can and sits with one of the kids, letting Stevie sit with Nando.    
  
The next time they go out for an away match, Stevie learns that Nando speaks Spanish in his sleep, just like Xabi had done. Sometimes, when he’s half-awake, it almost sounds like Xabi, even though the tone, the pitch, even the accent is wrong.  
  
He starts spending more time with Nando, and a bit less with Jamie, who lets go gracefully. They don’t even have to talk about it, the way they pull back gently, dial it down. He always lets Stevie call the shots with them—always gives everything and takes anything Stevie offers him.  
  
The boys don't even notice, really, or they don't comment on it, at least.  
  
Which is why it comes as such a surprise when Stevie gets the call on that cold January morning. There’ve been rumors, of course, but there are always rumors about a player like Nando, and he hasn’t signed a contract extension yet, but Stevie thinks it’s just a play for a bigger salary, some sort of negotiating chip.  
  
Apparently not.  
  
He’s just been rewatching some old matches of the teams they’re facing next. Glenn Murray of Crystal Palace is in good form, but they can shut him down if they defend well. And Palace is a counterattacking team, so breaking down their defense might be tough, but they have Fernando to make those brilliant runs in behind, and Stevie knows his passes can find him. They always do, after all.  
  
“Hello?”  
  
“It’s me, Stevie. Nando.”  
  
“Hi, mate. What’s going on?”  
  
“I, I’m leaving, Stevie.” Stevie’s stomach drops.  
  
“Where?” Stevie’s voice is quiet, wounded.  
  
“Chelsea.”  
  
Stevie hangs up. They don’t need Torres. He doesn’t need Nando. He’ll make the goddamn runs himself.  
  
Almost immediately, he feels bad. Ending it that way is… unfortunate. Captains aren’t meant to be quite so immature, he figures. But he doesn’t want to call back, still doesn’t want to hear Nando’s familiar voice all sad and hurt when _he’s_ the one in the wrong, when _Stevie_ was the one who’s hurting.  
  
He sends a text message instead.  
  
 _Good luck at Chelsea, Fernando._ Nando looks at the text and sighs at his full name, the first sign of the distance between them that can only grow from here.  
  
Stevie’s phone buzzes a minute later.  
  
 _Yours or mine tonight?_ It’s Jamie, of course. They haven’t slept together, er, literally slept together in a while—the last time had been in South Africa, during the World Cup—but he knows, of course. Jamie always knows what Stevie needs, has done since day one of his professional career.  
  
And for all his strength and his toughness, Jamie would be hurting too—he’d liked Nando, even if it wasn’t in the same way as Stevie had. And who knows if he’d gotten a phone call at all—maybe he’d found out through the papers, or from the telly.  
  
As far as coping mechanisms go, Stevie could do worse than climbing into bed with his vice-captain.  
  
 _Yours, please._  
  
And when they’re lying in bed, Jamie tells him they don’t need him, that they’ll get someone better, more loyal, someone who understands what it is to love and be loved, and his voice is fierce, angry at the man who’s hurt Stevie, hurt them both.  
  
 _We’ll smash them when they come to Anfield,_ he vows. Stevie just turns into Jamie’s chest, and Jamie brushes his hand through his hair.  
  
 _I’m getting tired_ , Stevie admits _. Tired of being left behind like this._  
  
 _I know._  
  
 _At least you’re not going anywhere._  
  
 _I’d never leave you. Wouldn’t know what to do with meself._  
  
He remembers everything about Fernando, for a while. His golden hair, like sunlight perched atop his head, and his smile, warm and kind and soft. The day he signs for Chelsea, has the photo-op, takes the pictures and smiles and wears the blue shirt, Stevie gets a phone call from Carra. They talk about the Bundesliga for a solid half hour, and at the end, Carra invites him over for a drink.  
  
Stevie brings his toothbrush with him, and doesn’t leave for four days.  
  
  
(It turns out that he doesn’t need to make the runs himself. They sign two strikers during that window, Andy Carroll from West Ham and some guy named Luis Suarez from Ajax. Uruguayan, if Stevie remembers correctly. Carroll’s pretty much a bust, not a bad player or a bad guy, just… not right for them. Luis, on the other hand… Luis is magic with the ball at his feet. Soon Stevie learns that like all genius, their Luisito is touched by madness, too.)  
  
Fernando doesn’t do well at Chelsea. When he comes to Anfield, the crowd is hostile, more hostile than he’s seen them be to anyone, maybe even more than Owen. Jamie doesn’t hold back on his tackles, and Daniel elbows him in the face once. He says afterwards that it’s an accident, but there’s a grim pride in his eyes. The referee doesn’t see it, and Stevie doesn’t say anything.  
  
He hugs Fernando after their next match at Stamford Bridge, whispers something in his ear, something soft and reassuring and forgiving. There aren’t many, over the years, who get to receive Stevie’s absolution.  
  
Fernando wins the league with Chelsea, though he doesn’t do much. They don’t love him the way Liverpool had loved him. He doesn’t get cuddled by Terry and Lampard the way he had been by Stevie and Jamie, no casual little kisses. Or less casual ones, behind closed doors. He becomes a joke, and the Chelsea fans have always been fickle, if you ask Stevie.  
  
He goes back home a few years later, back to Atletico Madrid. If there’s one thing Stevie understands, it’s wanting to be at home. Seeing him in a red and white striped kit comes easier than seeing him in blue. He calls him sometimes, just to say hello, or good luck before big matches, the kinds of matches Stevie doesn’t get to play anymore, not really. He puts up photos of the pair of them together, posts them on Instagram with good luck messages and kissy face emojis, and maybe that’s a sign that he’s over it.  
  
Such is the way of genius, he supposes.  
  
(Sometimes Jamie mumbles at night, too. It’s never Spanish, of course, he’s too Scouse to sound even vaguely like anything else, but it’s Jamie. Jamie’s voice, and it’s not the same, but it’s not worse, either.)


	4. Jamie Carragher

Carra called him on a Saturday morning, asking if he could come over. The sun was shining bright, and Stevie should have felt the joy he normally felt on those rare sunshiney mornings in Liverpool. He was a blessed man, with a beautiful family, amazing friends, and he was living his dream, after all. So he didn’t quite know why he didn’t feel that joy, as he opened the door and stepped aside for Carra to come in.  
  
“Morning, J. Y’alright?”  
  
Instead of a cheery return of the greeting, Carra was silent, and stepped forward, enveloping Stevie in a quick, tight squeeze of a hug. It wasn’t just a ‘hullo, how’re you doing’ sort of hug. It was different. There were (gasp) _emotions_  
  
It felt like the hugs he had received from Carra after cup finals, when things hadn’t quite gone their way. Suddenly the lack of joy solidified into a weight in his stomach. Something wasn’t right.  
  
“Carra?” His voice was quiet.  
  
“Stevie,” Jamie’s voice was just a little uneven.  
  
“Carra, what’s wrong, mate? Oh my god, the family, your mum and dad, everyone’s okay, right? How can I help?”  
  
Jamie choked out an unamused chuckle. “No, everyone’s fine. Or, well, the family’s all right, anyway.”  
  
There was a beat of silence, and the sound of two men breathing felt like the only one in the whole world.  
  
There was a comfort in it, though, in hearing the same breath he’d heard for as long as he could remember, the same breath that had beat against the side of his neck on those nights when Stevie’d climbed into Jamie’s bed, and they’d whispered about their dreams and their fears before falling asleep. The same breath that had lulled him to sleep as Jamie had held him on those long away nights, as the clock ticked the slow seconds away, in strange cities staring at strange ceilings, the same breath that whispered halfhearted consolations after tough matches, the same breath that screamed his name when he scored a goal or slid into a perfectly-timed tackle. He _knew_ Carra, like he knew himself, and _that’s_ how he knew something bad was coming.  
  
“I’m done, Stevie. Hanging up my boots.”  
  
Stevie was quiet. He understood now why Jamie’d corrected himself before—his family may have been alright, but everyone was _not_ _Jamie_ was not fine.  
  
There were no words. Or rather, there were too many, flying around his shell-shocked brain, fighting each other to get out, and so none of them escaped, like five people trying to get through a narrow doorway at the same time.  
  
He pulled Carra back into another hug, longer this time, but just as tight. For so long, it had been just the two of them, captaining the ship through sun and storm alike. It would be hard to sail on alone.  
  
He felt Jamie’s arms clinging to his back, and for a moment, the man who was two years his senior, who had always been a mature voice in his ear, was suddenly fifteen years old, looking out into an uncertain future.  
  
They’d spent their whole lives on football after all, from their youngest days playing in the streets and watching Match of the Day to their time in the academy, putting aside all the frivolous bullshit their schoolmates engaged in, focused for so long on _one singular goal_.  
   
“I’ll make you a cuppa tea, mate, just like the old days.” Stevie said softly, low and soothing.  
   
“Come into the kitchen, lad.” He wrapped an arm around Jamie’s shoulder and led him into the kitchen, even though he knew Jamie knew the way. (Jamie knew the place as well as his own house.) Jamie leaned against him as they walked.  
   
He didn’t know why, but he didn’t want Jamie to wait in the living room alone, didn’t want Jamie to leave his sight. All of a sudden Jamie had gone from a constant, from someone who had always been there and would always be there, to a rare exquisite treasure that Stevie’s eyes were blessed and fortunate to see.  
   
He wanted to see Jamie as much as he possibly could, on the pitch, in the dressing room, in his house, in his _life_ , before things went and bloody _changed_. He wanted to never blink and miss the sight of him in the kit, wanted to see every second, trying to build up a surplus of memories he could call up after Jamie was gone ( _after he leaves, you mean. He’s not dying or anything, you overdramatic tit,_ he told himself sternly.)  
   
( _Things had already changed,_ whispered a voice in the back of his head. He told it viciously to _shut the hell up_ , that it had _no idea what it was fucking talking about.)_  
   
They talked about it for awhile. They sat on the couch, right next to each other. He hadn’t seen Carra like this often, but sometimes, after particularly heartbreaking losses, Carra became touchy and physically affectionate, and Stevie gave in to it, the way he always did, because he got touchy too.  
   
They were both collapsed on the sofa, as if at the end of a long, hard day, feet up, and spines curving into the cushion (and Carra’s spine was meant to be straight. That was always how Stevie pictured him, straight, proud spine as he stood tall and strong. That Carra had let himself slump said a lot, and it kind of broke Stevie’s stupid fucking heart.)  
   
Stevie knew enough not to say what he desperately wanted to say—  
   
_(“ **Stay** , Carra. The club needs you. The boys need you. **I** need you. How can I carry the weight of this club alone? Don’t leave me. Please, **please** , don’t leave me.”_  
  
_“Carra you promised me. You promised me you’d never leave. You said you wouldn’t know what to do without me. I’ll retire too, just give me a couple of years, J, please.)_  
   
—and so he tried his best to be a captain ( _Do what Sami would do,_ he thought desperately to himself, and it was the first time he’d had that thought in _years_. _Be the captain he needs, Steven. I believe in you_ , he imagined Sami saying, _You can do it_. ).  
   
He couldn’t, though.  
   
So he ended up being a friend instead, and it felt right. He’d been Carra’s friend long before he had been his captain, after all, and he would be his friend long after he stopped being his captain.  
   
(If you asked Carra, this wasn’t quite correct—he’d served under a few captains in his day, but Steven Gerrard would be his captain, on and off the pitch, until the day he died.)  
  
_“_ We’ll miss you loads, mate. Though it will be quieter in the hotel without your snoring,” he said gently, laughing softly at the dry chuckle and the elbow to the ribs he received as retribution.  
   
They put on a match on the telly, but they weren’t really paying attention.  
   
It started when Stevie asked, out of the blue almost, if Jamie had remembered his first day training with the senior side.  
   
“’Course I do, mate. You hit that long pass off your first touch or summat… What was it, forty yards? And I was behind you in the back line, and I was trying to track someone, Robbie maybe, and I just kind of stopped, and looked at you, and I just had a feeling that I’d be seeing you hit those passes for the rest of my life.”  
   
Stevie’s voice was quiet again.  
   
“We had a good run, though, didn’t we?”  
   
“Yeah, we did. Though I dunno what you’re going on about, lad, you’ll still be playing for ages yet!”  
   
Stevie smiled, and the unspoken words hung between them, clear as day. _But it won’t be the same without you._  
   
Jamie cleared his throat and continued.  
   
“I just looked at you, this kid, younger’n me and better. I wanted to hate you, but how could I? You looked up at me with these kid’s eyes, still wide and bright. You used to stick to me, d’you remember? Because I was young too, and you were scared of the older lads. You used to ask me for advice about everything to do with football. And now look at you, my little captain all grown up.”  
   
Carra’s smile was fond, and Stevie’s heart was bursting with warm pride and to his horror, his eyes felt wet, as though this goodbye was finally sinking in. He kept his recalcitrant eyes firmly on the television, but he leaned into Jamie a bit more, feeling his familiar warmth against his shoulder.  
   
They went on, reliving memories, good and bad, big and small—the time Robbie and Macca had pranked the living daylights out of Redders, who had promptly recruited the young boys to help in exacting his revenge—  
   
(they’d both been helplessly in love with him, so of course they had helped. Everyone had been helplessly in love with Redders back then, though. Some things never changed.)  
   
cup final victories—  
   
(and a few defeats—“Do you remember that penalty?” “Of course I do. I went over it in my head a thousand times afterwards, picturing what it should have looked like, imagining the bounce of the net as it shot into the top corner. I wish I could’ve had that one back, mate.” Jamie looks at him, eyes fond and soft. “Me too, Stevie, me too.”)  
   
the different managers over the years and their various little quirks and oddities, the players they’d seen enter and leave the doors of Melwood, sometimes better footballers, sometimes worse, but always changed. They talked about tough opponents turned international teammates—  
   
( _How was it possible to both love and hate Gary Neville?_ Jamie’d wondered. Stevie had laughed. _Same way you manage to both love and hate John Terry, I reckon, J.)_  
   
They talked about the problems in football as well. Stevie loved hearing Jamie talk about football—he was one of the smartest football minds he’d ever known, and there had been quite a few good ones along the way. Jamie could speak eloquently about players and tactics in one breath, and hooliganism and corruption in FIFA in another, and racism and international politics (at least as far as it reflected on football) in the next.  
   
They ordered pizza for dinner, making a silent pact not to tell the club nutritionist, and stayed in talking until the sun had long since gone down ( _seeking new pastures, perhaps,_ Jamie had thought to himself. It was, after all, the nature of man to see himself in the world and the world in himself.)  
   
Finally, Jamie rose to go home, groaning as he stood up, back stretching and popping as it straightened after such a long time spent lounging.  
   
“D’you wanna stay tonight, J?”  
   
It’s different but the same. It’s the first time it hasn’t been for someone else’s sake. It’s not for Michael, or Xabi, or Nando. It’s for Carra, because Stevie loves him.  
   
“You sure?”  
   
“Positive. Come on, come to bed with me, J. Not many people get the opportunity, you know,” he teases.  
   
“I’ve known you awhile, Steve. Quite a few people have gotten the opportunity. It’s just that most of them had the good sense to turn you down.”  
   
“Oi. See if I invite you to bed again, then.”  
   
Jamie puts his coat back into the closet. He turns back to Stevie. “I’m gonna need something to sleep in, yeah?”  
   
“Sure, lad, I’ll find something for you.”  
   
They’re in bed together that night. Jamie doesn’t sleep easily on good nights, and this is not a good night. Stevie normally falls asleep first, but this time, he needs to say something, but he just can’t find the right words.  
   
“Hey, Jamie?” he ventures quietly, after the silence has worn away his determination to find exactly the right words.  
   
“Hmm?”  
   
“Thank you. Thank you for being in this with me from the very beginning. I really wouldn’t mind a team of Carraghers, if I got to play by their side.”  
   
Jamie smiles at him—Stevie can’t see it in the dark, but he just knows—and turns his head in to press a chaste little kiss to Stevie’s jaw.  
   
“A team of Carraghers would only ever serve under you, captain,” he says back fondly. He throws an arm around Stevie’s stomach and pulls close to him. Stevie wants to cry, a little bit. It’s Jamie—Jamie’s been here for all of it, from his first practice session with the senior side to now. They’re grown up together and grown old together, and won and lost together, and the thought of losing him—it cuts at Stevie’s insides.  
   
He waits until Jamie falls asleep. When he finally does, it’s a lot later. Jamie’s a deep sleeper, for all that it takes him an eternity to actually drop off.  
   
“Don’t go, Jamie,” Stevie whispers into the dark, quiet room.  
   
Jamie shifts and pulls closer.  
   
\---   
   
It’s different, after Jamie goes. But it’s tolerable. Jamie calls after every match (not before-he doesn't want to be a distraction, though he will text the occasional advice). They go out for drinks once a week, maybe once every other week if Stevie can’t find the time or is just too damn tired. Sometime Jamie comes over to his and they watch X Factor and talk about things like they used to.  
   
Jamie signs on with Sky to do Monday Night Football only a week after their season ends. He’s to co-host with Gary Neville, and complains about it endlessly to Stevie. They have a bit of a, well, quibble is perhaps too weak a word, and fight suggests fists and not words, but argument doesn’t quite go far enough—let’s say, ahem, a spirited discussion, about whether he’s better than Scholesy. Stevie knows quite well that Scholesy was different class—he probably is better than Stevie’s ever been. Gary tries to make the same point, and Jamie refuses to let that stand.  
   
Stevie smiles at home, sitting on the sofa in front of the telly.  
   
He sends Jamie a text afterwards. _Hey, love you too, Jaybird._

 

Jamie sends back a red heart, and if there’s one thing that sums up the pair of them, that’s it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate this one (the leaving, not the chapter). Mostly because I adore them and you just get the sense that they were basically work-married and it must have felt like Stevie was missing a limb when he went to training and there was no Jamie there.
> 
> (Also they're soulmates, you can't convince me otherwise, sorry)


	5. Daniel Agger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dan comes to him before the season even starts.

Daniel came to him before the season had even started. They were in Boston for preseason, and it was warm and sunny and they could see the ocean from the hotel. It was nice. The ocean wasn’t crystal blue like in the Caribbean. It was a rowdy thing here, restless and dark in color and the shores were rocky and had lots of shells. Stevie liked it. It was the same in Liverpool. Only here they could take a walk without being stalked by paparazzi and hounded for autographs.

 

Stevie had been enjoying their time in Boston, but Danny’d looked worn, tired. Years in the Premier League would take their toll on anyone, but on someone who would play for twenty minutes with cracked ribs, just for the sake of the team? Danny’s joints were hypermobile, too, on top of it. More susceptible to injury. He wasn’t the young lad who’d come in anymore, the young boy who’d attached himself to Carra’s side until they were all but brothers. No, it had aged him, his time at Liverpool, though he wore it gracefully.

 

“You busy after training, Stevie?”

 

“Not at all, what’s on your mind?”

 

Daniel had looked around, giving his head a little shake, as if to clear the thoughts circling his mind.

 

“Buy you a cup of coffee?”

 

“Sure thing, lad.”

 

They’d sat there, Daniel staring into his black coffee with one sugar, and Stevie sipping from his tea (two creams and three sugars, but he didn’t usually volunteer that information to the club nutritionist. There were some things they just didn’t need to know).

 

“What’s going on, mate?” Stevie said, eventually.

 

“I’m getting too slow for the Prem, Stevie,” Danny’d said bluntly, looking his captain in the eyes.

 

Stevie didn’t agree, but he’d been through this enough times by now to let a man make his own decisions, even when it was hard. That’s what he would want, after all, if it were him trying to decide.

 

He didn’t bother with the obvious question. Instead he asked something else.

 

“Back to Denmark, or somewhere else, then?”

 

“I’m hoping Brøndby. I started my career there. It would be nice to end it there, too.” Daniel said, eyes looking through the table into some distant memory.

 

“Well, best of luck, mate. We’ll miss you around here. You gave us everything for many years, and we really appreciate that.”

 

“I’m sorry, Stevie,” Danny blurted out unexpectedly.

 

“Sorry for what?”

 

“Leaving. I don’t want to, you know? Carra just went, and Nando before that, and Xabi before that, and I know that was hard on you. I don’t want you to lose two vice-captains in two years.” There were a number of things that could be said about Daniel Agger, but there was one fundamental truth at the base of it all—he was a terribly earnest man.

 

Stevie sighed. “I’ll be okay, Dan. Don’t worry about me. I’m the captain, it’s my job to worry about you, lad. Who’ve you told about leaving?”

 

“Nobody yet. And don’t change the subject, Stevie. You’re the captain, so it’s your job to worry about everybody. But I’m still vice-cap, mate, for the minute at least, and it’s vice-captain’s job to worry about the skipper, you know.”

 

“Yeah? Did Carra tell you that?” Stevie asked sardonically, raising one skeptical eyebrow.

 

“No,” Daniel said quietly, “he _showed_ me that.”

 

Stevie fell silent. Because Carra _had_ taken care of him. He had always done it. Stevie’d had the whole team, and then Carra had Stevie. And on those rare occasions Carra had needed the support? Well, Stevie was there, almost before Carra’d even realized he wanted him.

 

“Yeah,” Stevie agreed quietly, “Carra’s good like that.”

 

Danny winced at the implicit criticism. Stevie noticed, and corrected himself instantly. He hadn’t really meant it that way.

 

“So are you, Danny-boy.” Daniel smiled at the nickname, colored—some would say mauled—by that Scouse voice.

 

“The boys are lucky to share a dressing room with you, and they know it. At least, I sure as hell do. It’s just a shame you’ve gotta go, mate.”

 

“I’m not too slow,” Daniel confesses softly, “He just doesn’t want me. I—I haven’t got much longer in me, I need to play, and the boss—he won’t play me. Barcelona have made an offer. But I’ve asked if I can go home instead.”

 

Stevie doesn’t quite know what to say—it’s difficult to know. It’ll be the same in a few years with him, he supposes. First he’ll get pulled back, and then he’ll be made into an ‘impact sub,’ a pleasant euphemism for benchwarmer, and then… then that would be it. Shuttled off to the footballers’ retirement home or the television studio or to some other locker room, if he could find one that didn’t break his heart every time he walked into it. This was just how the game worked.

 

“It’s been a good run, Dan,” he says kindly, pressing a hand into Daniel’s shoulder as they stand up and walk out of the coffee shop. “It’s been a pleasure working with you, and when you do go, if you decide you want to or need to go, I wish you all the luck in the world. Might have to start watching the Superliga, eh?”

 

Danny smiles a little. “Thanks, skipper, always good to have a chat with you.”

 

Stevie’s growing old and tired.

 

Daniel retires two years later, comes out and confesses that he’d been overdoing the anti-inflammatories. For years.

 

Stevie’d already known, of course. He’d seen countless others do the same thing.

 

The beautiful game had its ugly side, too. It was just easier not to talk about it.


	6. Luis Suarez

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is different. Luis is leaving. Stevie knows it, Brendan knows it. The whole team knows it. The whole fucking planet seems to know it.

This one is different. Luis is leaving. Stevie knows it, Brendan knows it. The whole team knows it. The whole fucking _planet_ seems to know it.

 

Stevie speaks with him, voice low and passionate and fast until Luis gets that look that tells him he’s talking too fast and too Scouse, and then he slows down.

 

When he pauses to take a breath, he catches a glimpse of Luis’ eyes, holding a strange tenderness he doesn’t usually wear so openly. Luis is watching his lips as he speaks. He says it helps him understand better.

 

He gets him to hold on for one more year.

 

And it’s a _hell_ of a year, isn’t it?

 

But in the end, it’s heartbreak again, and _fuck_ , Stevie’s tired of that bastard.

 

He knows Luis is gone. He knows it as soon as the final whistle blows, as soon as the fragments of their dream hit the pitch. There is a silence, he will remember later, an impossible silence, nothing but the blood rushing in his ears and the soft sounds of his men’s tears and gasping, hitching breaths.

 

He knows Luis is gone, as his hands pull up the weeping Uruguayan, and rest that dark head of hair on his shoulder, face hidden beneath the red shirt. _(That shirt had always loved Luis, had always tried to protect him, as had nearly every man who’d worn it on his back, and what Luis had given them in return… hope, a dream resurrected, the sweetest joy. They’d shared in the bitterest agonies as well._ ).

 

He knows it, as he shoves away the camera that zooms in on the picture of misery on the face of someone people will think _deserves_ to suffer this way.

 

( _He **doesn’t**_ , Stevie wants to scream. Nobody who knows Luis the way Stevie does would _ever_ say he deserves it. Nobody who sees the bruises lining his legs after matches, or the way he winces for a moment as he gets into the ice bath. Nobody who sees the hours he spends after training working on curving free kicks just right.

 

Nobody who sees him tap their Muslim doctor on the shoulder and sweetly, kindly remind him that the sun had set and it was time to break his long fast.

 

Nobody who sees the way he nurtures young Phil Coutinho, on and off the pitch, or the way Lucas’ son runs to hug Tío Luis, or watches the way he kisses his wife at the end of a long away trip.

 

Nobody who’s had that dark hair and warm breath tickle his neck as Luis sleeps on the coach, tired but faithful at his _capitán’s_ side. Nobody who’s had to gently nudge him awake, and politely ignore the sleep-fuzzed Spanish murmurs he lets out as he yawns, sweet and unguarded in a way Luis never is in English. Nobody whose hand has run, almost without permission, through that soft black hair as Luis shifts, swimming back to consciousness.

 

No, nobody who knows Luis Suarez the way Steven Gerrard does would wish _this_ on him.)

 

Still, Luis is gone now. He’s given it his all, and a man like Luis can only go so long without winning. Losing doesn’t just hurt him, it _destroys_ him. The siren song of trophies is calling his name. It’ll be nice, too, to go somewhere where he can understand what people are saying about him, where speaking English all day doesn’t exhaust him as it does here, where he can defend himself properly without fear that his words will be mangled or misrepresented by a translator.

 

Stevie knows. He always does. This time, though, he’s not angry, for the first time since Jamie. He’s not bitter, just resigned. He’s sad for the loss of a friend like Luis, sorry for the loss of a striker with winged feet from the team.

 

But he’s actually _happy_ for him, because he’ll be happy there. He won’t have to see that bone-deep weariness in Sofia’s eyes anymore whenever they meet, sharing the same duty—to protect Luis, always to protect Luis—between them.

 

Still, Steven manages to be surprised when Luis knocks on his door a couple of weeks later.

 

Stevie hadn’t taken the loss well himself, really. He’d held on just long enough to hold the boys up for those few hours, and then he’d left the country immediately, Alex by his side like a beautiful, terrifying guardian angel.

 

They’d just gotten back, actually. Luis’ timing is more than impeccable—it’s borderline _suspicious_.

 

(Stevie suspects the sisterhood of the boys’ partners. Alex had always taken the new girls under her wings, after all, the ladies sharing in a particular battle themselves, quite different from the one their boys fought on the pitch. Either Sofia had asked Alex directly, or Ariana had been the go-between, helping bridge the language gap the same way her husband did in the squad.)

 

“Hullo, Luis,” Stevie says, opening the door wide for his friend to come in.

 

He leads the way to the living room and casually sits down in a chair, one in a cluster of three that the snobby interior designer had called “a conversation nook.”

 

Luis looked at the chairs and settled quickly ( _bravely_ , Stevie thought, _the way he did everything_ ) into the chair directly opposite him.

 

“I am going, Stevie,” Luis said, and the years had worn the edge off of his accent, but still it lingered, the words itching to be spoken in Spanish and rebelling against his tongue.

 

“I figured,” Stevie said, quiet, but not angry, “Barcelona?”

 

Luis nodded, and for once, his courage failed him, and he broke eye contact to stare out the window instead.

 

“Congratulations,” Stevie said, sincerity ringing through the single word.

 

Luis looked up at him with surprise.

 

“You are not… angry?” He asked, confused.

 

“Not at all, mate, happy for you. It’ll be good for Sofia and your family, and I understand.”

 

Luis still looked puzzled by the fact that he wasn’t being shouted at. Maybe that was why he’d come in person. Maybe he felt like he _deserved_ to be shouted at.

 

“Torres said…” he started quietly.

 

Stevie looked up at him, startled.

 

“You talked to Nando?”

 

Maybe there was something in his tone, some ghost of protectiveness or anger he hadn’t intended to show so openly, because Luis backtracked immediately.

 

“Just one time, Stevie, at the charity match.”

 

“What did he say?”

 

Luis looked at him, as though considering how much to say. His features shifted into a look of resolve, and Stevie knew he’d be honest. Luis had always been honest with Stevie, after all, and always would be.

 

“He say,” Luis started, looking down at the floor, “that you been left before. He told me not to hurt you. He said I would be sorry if I do.”

 

Stevie was a little put out, if he was being honest with himself. What was it about him that said he needed to be taken care of? He was the _captain_ , for fuck’s sake!

 

He wondered how Nando had delivered the words—was it sincere advice, born of rueful experience? Or a threat? (one that, Stevie noted tiredly to himself, Nando no longer had any right to make)

 

Luis was looking at him now, a little cautious, a little careful, studying that precious face, noting the way the lines by his eyes deepened when he was thinking about Fernando Torres. Luis forced away the unexpected hint of jealousy that rose inside him—how could Stevie, his _Capitán Fantástico_ , still like Torres _now_ , after everything he’d said and done, and the way he’d _left_ him, bearing the weight of the liverbird alone?

 

“It was… different, when Nando left,” Stevie said slowly, testing the words and making sure Luis understood properly, “He left in January, we had almost no time to get someone—we got really lucky with you, by the way—and he went to _Chelsea_.”

 

He paused, looking Luis in the eyes, watching as he grew still.

 

“You wouldn’t go to Chelsea.”

 

“No, nowhere else in England,” Luis says honestly, and the memory of that Arsenal 40 million plus one bid comes back up. He’d known even then that Luis wouldn’t go, had sat in his chair and had a good laugh about it when he found out.

 

“I know,” Stevie says fondly, “You have family in Barcelona?”

 

“Si, Sofia’s parents, they want us to go to them. And Delfina and Benja, I want them to learn Spanish.”

 

“Ahh, but that son of yours will always be a Scouser, y’know,” Stevie teased gently.

 

“I hope so. Delfi never like watching football before, but now she sit sometimes and watch Liverpool.”

 

“Oh yeah?”

 

Luis nods, grins sheepishly.

 

“Yes, Sofi tell me when I come home, and Delfi hug me, she say Daddy, you win, you win!”

 

“Wish my girls took an interest,” Stevie says wistfully.

 

“One day, maybe? Is possible, no?”

 

“Yeah, I s’pose it is,” Stevie laughs.

 

They sit there, talking for awhile, until Luis looks at his watch and stands up.

 

“Sofi want to go do the shopping today,” he says sheepishly, “I watch the kids while she go.”

 

“Better get home then,” Stevie says kindly. He walks him to the door, gives him one last hug.

 

“Thank you for everything, capitán,” Luis says. He’s walking away already when Stevie catches the whisper. “Lo siento, Stevie.”

 

\---

 

Luis goes on to be wildly successful at Barcelona, becomes friends with Messi and Neymar.

 

Jamie goes to the Camp Nou and watches him demolish Gary Neville’s Valencia. A few months later, Stevie announces he’s leaving Galaxy and comes home. He retires from football a couple of weeks later, and he loves home, he does, but the news is a bit much. He asks Paulie’s boys what present they’d like to have from Uncle Stevie, and they’ve always dreamt big, those lads. Which is how Stevie ends up calling Luis one day, asking for three tickets to El Clasico. Of course Stevie, Luis says. _I look forward to seeing you._

 

It’s a draw in the end.


	7. Steven Gerrard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stevie has to say his own goodbyes, too, eventually.

“Hey, Jamie.” Stevie’s voice is low, hesitant and downcast. Carra can tell almost immediately that something is wrong. It’s been years since the last time Stevie called him by his first name.  
  


“What’s wrong, Stevie?” Carra’s never been much of a bullshitter—couldn’t stand to dance around a problem, and it was clear as day that there was indeed a problem here. It remained to be seen whether that problem could, in fact, be solved or not.

 

“I’m going to leave Liverpool.”

  
“No, you’re not,” Carra rebutted easily, voice steadier than his traitorous heart, which skipped a beat and couldn’t seem to recover its original rhythm.

  
“I am,” Stevie was whispering now, half regretful, half disbelieving.

  
“No.” Carra said, and petulant wasn’t often a word used to describe Jamie Carragher, but it did fit the man now. Maybe it was just the shock talking, the instinctive reaction of denial.

  
“You can’t.” And Jamie was pleading now, and Jamie didn’t _plead_. He was a grown man who’d managed to get along with a Manc for years now, and that more than anything showed him to be a good communicator.

  
“I’m your captain, Carra. I think you’ll find that you can’t really tell me what to do. It’s meant to be more the other way ‘round, I think.”

  
Carra bit back the retort of “You’re not my captain, not anymore, Stevie,” that jumped to the back of his throat. It wouldn’t help anyone, would only hurt the both of them.

  
Carra would hurt at the memory of retirement. (The reason he stayed so fit after he’d given it up was that his muscles almost ached, screamed, begged for the exhaustion of exercise, his mind using endorphins to chase the thrill of playing in Anfield. It was impossible, of course, and yet he tried anyway, adhering to a strict diet and exercise regimen, so much so that sometimes, in the back of his mind, he could almost squint and pretend he was still playing.) And Stevie would hurt at the memory of being left alone yet again, by his oldest and most stalwart companion.

  
And so Carra opened his mouth to give another response, equally honest.

  
“You are my captain, Stevie. And I love you too much to let you make this kind of mistake, lad.”

  
“Jamie, _please_ ,” and now _Stevie_ was pleading, and the sound of it tugged at Carra’s tough old heart, taking him straight back to nineteen, when a nervous seventeen year old Stevie had first asked if they could sit together on the coach to an away match. He’d taken one look at the boy and sent Michael off to go sit somewhere else. Stevie had looked at him, gratitude shining out of absurdly young eyes, and they’d sat together on every away ride since, until the day Carra had hung up his boots.

  
Those days had been different than these ones—Steven hadn’t been captain then, nor Carra vice-captain. They’d just been two boys, and Carra’d looked out for the younger man like a brother. He’d never really stopped, truth be told. And even still, when Carra’s dark hair was slowly fading to gray, and the wrinkles were carving themselves ever deeper into Stevie’s forehead, even now, Carra couldn’t find it in himself to deny that voice.  
  


“What can I do? How can I help? Tell me what to do, Stevie.” And there was a solemn urgency to Carra’s voice now, begging for some sort of task, anything to make this easier on one of his dearest friends.  
  


“Just…” There was a slow, unsteady exhale, and Jamie clutched at the phone tighter, as if the hold would reassure the man on the other side somehow, “just tell me it’ll be okay. Tell me what it’ll be like.”

  
What had Jamie wanted someone to tell him? And suddenly it clicked for Jamie, what Stevie needed. He’d always had a keen sense of what Stevie needed, after all, and his retirement hadn’t really changed anything. It took more than a couple years to undo the work of decades, after all.

  
He closed his eyes, swallowed once, to force the bile that kept rising back down, and began speaking.

  
“You wake up, get ready. Hug Alex and the girls, and go to Anfield.

  
You park the car, go to the dressing room. You go up to the same spot you’ve had for years. You get dressed. You listen to Brendan give a pre-match talk. You say a few words, too.”

  
Stevie sucked in a breath, and Carra rushed to continue, because he knew that speaking before his last game would make Stevie anxious.

  
“Not much, Stevie. The lads don’t need much for this one, they know what it means. Just tell them that you love them, that you believe in them, and that you’re going to go out and win. That’ll be enough.” There was a rustle on the line, and Carra realized fondly that Stevie was nodding. He’d always had a nasty habit of forgetting that the person on the other end of the phone couldn’t actually _see_

  
“You walk onto the pitch, holding the mascot’s hand. You shake hands with the Palace boys.” Carra swallowed, and tried not to get emotional.

  
“You, uh, you go to the refs for the coin toss. Shake hands with them and the Palace captain, whoever they have that day. You go to your position on the pitch.”

  
He took a deep breath. They both did, caught in a strange synchronicity, two sets of lungs expanding and contracting in concert, two hearts beating to the same rhythm.

  
“The ref will blow his whistle, and you’ll _play_ , Stevie. You’ll play the way you’ve always played, and the fans, they’ll sing your name, but the sound will fade to the back of your mind, the way it always does when you’re playing.”

  
“Eventually the first half will end, and you’ll go into the tunnel. The other boys might look at you a little differently, but you’ll ignore that. You’ve got a job to do after all, lad. Brendan will give the half-time talk, and you’ll chime in, and then you’ll be back on the pitch just a few minutes later.”

  
“The second half will fly by,” There’s a nostalgic longing in Carra’s voice, words weighted with experience.

  
“It’ll be over in the blink of an eye.” He finished. He rose and began pacing, dissatisfied with himself.

  
“And then what, Jamie?” Stevie asked, quiet and young, needing more than that. The match itself would be the easy part, after all.

  
Jamie’s voice lowered, became quieter and less assured.

  
“And then you’ll go into the tunnel, Stevie. The boys will freshen up quickly, and so will you. The girls will be there. You hug them. Hold them tight, Stevie. The boys will go up, then, before you. And then you hold the girls’ hands, and lead them down the tunnel. You’ll touch the sign, like you always do, the This Is Anfield sign. You’ll come out, and the noise will hit you, like never before.”

  
“You might want to cry. That’s okay,” Jamie swallowed against an unexpected lump in his throat, “You can, if you want to. The lads’ll take care of you, Stevie.”

  
Carra’s voice dropped unexpectedly, into a low threatening growl.

  
“Or they’ll have me to answer to.”

  
It went back to normal, and he continued on.

 

“You’ll walk the pitch, with the lads and your girls, and the fans will sing your name, and they’ll sing You’ll Never Walk Alone, just for you. And your heart—” Jamie broke off suddenly, choking on the word. There was silence for a few seconds before he started again. “And your heart will feel like it’s breaking and exploding and empty and overflowing, all at the same time, and you might forget to breathe, but you’ll look at your little girls and you’ll remember.”

  
“And they’ll ask you to say a few words, and you’ll tell the fans thank you, and you’ll walk around the pitch, one last time. And I’ll be there, Stevie,” The words were an oath, sworn and inviolable, a promise made on blood and sweat and tears and fears and hopes and dreams come true and dreams left wanting, “and I’ll be there, same as I was the first time you walked out at Anfield, and I’ll drag Redders along with me—probably couldn’t leave him behind if I tried, you were always his favorite, mate—and we’ll be there for you, Stevie, I promise.”

  
“And then?” Stevie whispered.

  
“You’ll give us a hug—least you could do for your all-time favorite teammate, eh? And Redders’ll want one, too, I reckon, the needy little bastard. Such an emotional lad, Redders is. And maybe give us a few words, if you’re up to it—we won’t ask much, Stevie. No stupid questions about how emotional you’re feeling, I promise. And then it’ll be over with. And then, if you’re feeling up to it, mate, you, me, and Redders will go out for a drink. How about that, eh? Does that sound good, Stevie?”

  
“Don’t think I’ll wanna go out,” Stevie said shortly.

  
“Okay, then we’ll go round mine, okay? Kick Nicola and the kids out and have a day of it, just the three of us, watching telly and having a few drinks. You can make us a cuppa, even, just like you used to.”

  
Stevie snorted. “Or you could make the tea, like a proper host would do.”

  
“But you always make it better, Stevie!” Carra’s voice was light, teasing.

  
“Piss off, Carra,” Stevie said, sounding like his old ( _young_ ) self again, “Tastes better because you don’t have to lift a finger, you lazy fucker.”

  
“Hey, respect your elders,” Carra said, the words mild. It wasn’t really a reproach, anyway, just an echo of what Carra’d always said when Stevie complained about having to make the tea.

  
They lapsed into silence again.

  
“You promise you’ll be there?”

  
“I’d have to be dead to miss it. Hell, even then, I think my ghost would haunt your ass that day.”  
  
  
The day came, with brilliant golden sunshine lighting up the city. His girls were wearing little pink dresses. Stevie hurt. He hurt like he’d never hurt before, like he hoped he would never hurt again. He forgot to breathe, just like Carra said, and when he looked at Lourdes mouthing something, he remembered, and sucked in oxygen into his burning lungs. He pulled her into his arms and held her tight, looking out at the fans.

  
The fans blurred together, into one massive blur, singing and swaying and shouting their love for him.

  
Then he turned and squinted into the light. Jamie had promised, he’d _promised_ he’d be here.

  
And there he was, fifty feet away, looking at Stevie with softness in his eyes. Redders was behind him, looking like a proud father. Lilly and Lexie were somewhere near, and the rest of the boys were about with their kids as well, probably. But they were a blur.

  
Everything was a vague haze. The only clarity was in Jamie before him and Lourdes in his arms.

  
He stepped forward, into Jamie’s arms.

 

They spent the night together, that night, before Stevie went home to his family again, and it’s something he needed, to sleep next to someone who knew the wound in his heart and how it gaped and throbbed.

 

 

\---

He has a testimonial, and they all come back. Carra, of course, and Michael, Xabi, Daniel, Fernando, and Luis. The day goes by in a blur, and seeing Nando pass to Luis is surreal, almost, as if he’s dreaming it and not actually living it. And after the final whistle, they head off to a bar to have drinks and dinner before they all disperse, back to Denmark and Munich and Madrid and Barcelona.

 

Carra stays, though, and spends the night at Stevie’s, passed out on the couch. Stevie looks at him one last time, fetching a blanket to put over him, and shakes his head fondly, carefully laying next to him, close enough that he won’t fall off. Some things don’t change with time, and this is one of them, the way Jamie knows to wrap his arms around him, even when he’s asleep, the measured rhythm of his breath and the steadiness of his heartbeat.

 

 

\---  
LA isn’t a terrible place to live, really. But it won’t be very long, and Stevie doesn’t quite have the heart to make his little girls leave school when they’re going to end up back in Liverpool within a couple of years anyway. So it’s lonely, a lot of it, the time outside of training spent mostly with the television. He phones Jamie sometimes, on nights when he wants to let Alex sleep, and a few times Jamie falls asleep while they’re talking and Stevie waits longer than he should to hang up.

 

He’s back by the end of 2016, and early in 2017, the club officially offers him the job of academy coach. Jamie goes on the record and says the offer should have been made two years ago, before he’d even left, still stubbornly defensive.

 

They play friendlies together now and again, testimonials and legends matches and when they’re off in far-away cities to play football with other old men, Stevie still climbs into bed with his best friend, just for old times’ sake.

 

Jamie’s son signs for Wigan, due in no small part to the fact that it might get awkward for him to be coached by a man he’d always known as Uncle Stevie. The plan, as far as Jamie and Stevie have talked about it, is for him to transfer back over when he’s older, when he can play at U-23 level or maybe as a senior player, with a bit of Premier League experience under his belt.

 

It’s a good life, and it’s one that Stevie doesn’t plan on saying goodbye to anytime soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finally done with this!!! This was actually one of the first parts of this story that I wrote, immediately following Jamie's goodbye. It's changed and evolved over the course of the other chapters and I'm pretty happy with where it's at now.


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